Monologue
by Donner Dumott Schunard
Summary: Angel spewing angst. That's all I have to say.


1**Disclaimer: **I don't own RENT. This was written in order to let off some steam because of the fact that I am in a really bad Collins-esque situation and I just don't know what's going on anymore and I'm just spewing angst... I'm sorry.

b Monologue

By Donna /b 

Angel sat down in front of the small vanity she found discarded a few months ago and sighed. Another day. Another face left to be meticulously painted on and wiped off only hours later.

She looked at the wig she left hanging on the edge of the vanity. She couldn't afford those faceless mannequin heads that beauty salons carried. She couldn't afford much, but she was resourceful and she had a knack to ration the use of lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara like she was going out to war. She pushed at the curls that covered the edge of her forehead and put on her wig. She pulled a handful of pins from a box and snagged them into her hair and made sure that the wig fit her head and was, most importantly, not crooked. She pushed locks of the synthetic hair forward, dropping down slightly in her face and making her give similar looks to when she first threw herself out on the streets because she had no where to go. But the street was clearly no mother and side effects given to her were disease and the complete need to be wanted and loved.

But even before disease came, the wanting was there. Men's faces blurred in her mind, each one saying the same thing to her over and over. "I love you. I want you. You're the one, baby." Each one simply taking advantage of the wide-eyed kid in a too-blonde knotted-up wig and ripped-up third-rate red fishnets they found lying around.

She shook her head, trying to ignore the words in her mind. She groaned, realizing she accidently put her wig on too early. She shrugged, pushing the bangs out of her face and pulling out a compact. She opened it and looked at the coloration. It was almost stark white, like that of papers that told her the worse things you could possibly hear. Failed attempts to get out of suburbia, like college applications, failed job applications, and the only thing positive from these papers... as in positive for HIV. She covered her face, watching the darker shade back away. She stared at her paler self and thought of what ifs and what could have beens.

She didn't always intend on doing superficial things like foundation and layers and layers of make-up. It just happened. She'd be window-shopping and a gaggle of blonde blue-eyed curvaceous women would pass by. They were usually ignorant of the truth behind the big brown eyes and they would snicker and sneer with, "Oooh... she's so flat!" and "She can't even match!"

If only they knew, she thought as she brushed blush on her cheeks. She already was looking like a harlequin girl. And she didn't like it that much, but it was a way of life. It was reality to her so it was okay.

She grabbed a stick of eyeliner and pulled at her eyelids. When she just started exploring herself, she could never do this right. She always fumbled and poked her eye and it hurt, but she liked the final result, once the redness went away. She brought a tube of mascara close and unscrewed the top. She pushed her eyelashes up, ready to bat and look charming for the nearest person. She didn't want to do this, but it was expected of her. All her life, things were expected of her. Being a good son, playing sports, dating girls, getting married, having lots of children. Now she was expected to always have a sexy smile and poised to grab you over and tell you she wanted you because "Oh baby, you are simply the one!"

She looked at a tube of lipstick and put the red paint over her lips. Lips that have said quite a bit the past twenty years and most of which she should regret. But she kept repeating with these very lips that she couldn't sit around regretting that bullshit. She had to keep going.

"You don't have to do this," someone whispered.

She turned her head. "What?"

"I said, you don't have to do this. Get ready like this. I love you. You don't have to impress me," he said.

She smiled. Collins. If only he knew...

"You're not obligated to..."

"...I know," she whispered, "It's just... it's just expected of me. And... and if you give me a month or two, I think I'll realize it. But for now... just let me paint on my face... it's okay."

One more lie slipping from the scarlet lips wouldn't hurt. Transitions took time and in the end it would be okay, but for now she had to lose the attachment to her past life and the new life with this new person she met through putting her guard down and being able to give things one more chance.

Someday she could put down the brush and say, "Enough", but for now she had to slowly lose her grip on her past self and the self that he knew and loved.

But not just yet. Because even the most seasoned of those who cross other areas of unknown fear change at times.

b END /b 


End file.
